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Shane twisted the throttle on his scooter and headed toward Karen's place. His mind was already drifting—hot shower first, or drag Karen straight into "extra training" the second he walked in?
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and answered without slowing down. Fiona's voice came through tight and wired.
"Shane, you better get back here right now."
"What's going on?"
"Ian and Lip are hurt. Look like they just crawled out of Iraq. They won't tell me shit."
Shane's jaw tightened. South Side injuries weren't exactly rare, but Fiona sounded genuinely rattled. That was new.
"On my way."
He hung up and swung the scooter around.
Ten minutes later he was pushing through the brand-new front door Carl had "tested" into oblivion. He took the stairs two at a time and shoved open the bedroom door.
The scene was pure Gallagher chaos.
Ian was huddled in the corner of the bed, pale, lips trembling, mumbling excuses. Lip sat on the edge with one pant leg rolled up, a bloody gauze wrap around his calf. Fiona and Veronica stood with arms crossed, glaring like they were running an interrogation.
"What the fuck?" Shane said.
Lip's head snapped up. Relief flashed across his face, followed immediately by frantic eye signals toward the door—get the women out, now.
Shane sighed and clapped Fiona on the shoulder. "All right, ladies. Give the boys a little dignity. I got this. If they actually killed somebody I'll help bury the body."
"You better," Fiona snapped, shooting Lip one last death glare.
"Medical kit's right there. Don't bleed on the floor," Veronica added, then followed Fiona out and yanked the door shut.
Silence.
Shane dragged a chair over, spun it around, and straddled it backward.
"Spill. You two get caught with your pants down and the husband came home early?"
"Close enough," Lip hissed, pressing on the wound. "Jumped out a second-story window. Fucking glass got me on the way down. Guy was a goddamn rabid dog."
Ian finally spoke, voice small. "He said he was taking me to 'see the world.' We ended up hiding in a closet when the husband kicked the door in."
Shane rubbed his face. He'd known this was coming the second Lip started playing big brother.
"I told you to let it happen natural, Lip. You had to push it."
"I was trying to help him!" Lip shot back. "Better than letting people talk shit about him forever—"
"Enough." Shane cut him off. He looked at Lip's bandaged leg. Stupid move, but the heart was in the right place. At least Ian hadn't gotten physically wrecked—just a lifetime supply of closet trauma.
Shane stood, grabbed his backpack from the doorway, and dropped a thick stack of papers onto Lip's good leg.
Lip picked it up and flipped through. Fitness theory, client Q&A scripts, recovery protocols for women, the works.
"The hell is this?"
"Your new job," Shane said. "I'm gonna start running classes on the West Side for those rich moms and their kids. I can't do it alone. You're gonna learn this shit cold—especially the theory. One day I'm gonna need a coach who actually sounds like he knows what the fuck he's talking about."
"Assistant coach?" Lip raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like I'm gonna be your backup dancer at Zumba."
"Thirty bucks an hour. You in?"
Lip's eyes lit up. "Fuck yes. I'll have this memorized by tonight."
Shane smirked and pulled a small black object from the bag. He tossed it to Lip.
Mini camera.
Lip caught it and turned it over. "This for filming rich ladies changing? 'Cause I'm down."
"Keep your filthy brain in check. I can see them naked without a camera if I wanted to." Shane's tone went serious. "Insurance. West Side women got money and they bite harder than South Side thugs when shit goes sideways. This is proof if they try to screw us. Plus it's information warfare. Understand?"
Lip grinned, already playing with the buttons. "All right. This thing's sick."
A loud, aggressive knock rattled the front door downstairs.
"Fuck!" Lip yelped and dove under the bed so fast he forgot his bad leg. Ian scrambled under the covers like a scared kid.
"Don't open it!" Lip's muffled voice came from under the mattress. "It's that crazy bastard—he followed us!"
Shane stared at the two disappearing brothers and rolled his eyes. "Pussies."
He headed downstairs. Fiona was already at the door, peeking through the peephole.
"Looks like a delivery guy," she said. "Big truck. Says 'Quick Home Appliances' on the side. You order something?"
"No."
Fiona stepped aside. Shane opened the door.
A young delivery guy with a bright smile stood there holding a clipboard. "Gallagher residence? Package for Fiona Gallagher."
"That's me," Fiona said, stepping forward, confused.
"Great! Just need a signature." The guy handed her the clipboard and waved his partner forward. They wrestled a massive cardboard box off the truck. On the side, in huge letters: Samsung 34-inch Flat Screen TV.
Next to it came a huge bouquet—roses and baby's breath—with a small card tucked inside.
Fiona stared at the box, then the flowers, then the card. Her cheeks were already turning pink.
Shane leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the whole thing with a knowing smirk.
Looks like big brother-in-law had officially made his move.